


wisteria

by aeo



Category: Midnight Cinderella (Video Game)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-08 18:47:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 3,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11652519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeo/pseuds/aeo
Summary: i’ll cling to you.- (suitors/reader, a collection of fluff drabbles for the suitors of midnight cinderella)





	1. alyn

**Author's Note:**

> mostly spoiler free (watch out for leo’s, at least). this wouldn't show up in tumblr's search for some reason so i decided to upload it here as well. the original version is on my tumblr (kyoune @ tumblr)

 the fairytales say that princesses are dainty little things. they dance, they wear dresses and chatter over afternoon tea, they find a prince charming, and live happily ever after. princesses do not handle blades - danger is not meant to reach them, for what is what knights are for.

_damn what the fairytales say._

there’s no drop of royal blood in you anyways, and this is what comforts you when your fingers slide down the cold metal. it does not feel like danger, but it  _does_  feel like home.

“are you  _ **sure**_ you want to do this?” alyn’s voice is paranoid, overprotective. you can’t blame him, because accidents  _do_  happen, and your smooth, clean skin is a temptation for calamity. yet at the same time, as princess elect of wysteria, you have but one duty, and a wound to your flesh is a mere paper cut compared to a kingdom without a ruler.

most of all, you remind him, _luxurious silk gowns don’t go well with princess blood._

a sigh tumbles out, but so does  _“fair point”._   he reaches out and takes your hand in his, starting off with the basics. with his guidance, you mimic and practice the exercises, trying not to imagine the inevitable bloodshed and violence. his fingers trace the skin where it is most vulnerable, where it is most efficient to stick blades in, and now you know why pocket knives are such popular weapons, even for the common thief.

a stab to the heart, a simple knock to the head, just one little mishap and perhaps you’ll never see the light of day again.

“now, come at me. i’ll test you.”

alyn assumes the role of guard on watch, back turned. the veins in your hands pulse like a ticking clock, and as your arms lift up, you can just  _feel_  it, the adrenaline behind your force, the almost frightful thrill that shocks your body as you swing the blade forward -

.. and his fingers snatch your arm. alyn’s other hand steadies you, and he steals a kiss when you whirl around in confusion.

“not bad, not bad.” he laughs, “fierce is a good look on you.”


	2. giles

of all the things you’d expect to see, giles sleeping, face smashed against the oak desk, was not one of them. sleep makes his face look gentle, less like a strict tutor and more like the kindhearted cat lover you know.

maybe it’s not _that_  surprising. he wears many hats, _some of which should not rest on his head_. yet they fall on him anyway, for there is always _something_  to do,  _something_  to achieve. for giles christophe, being busy is a way to prove that his life  _ **has**_  worth, even if it meant he couldn’t be a knight, even if it meant he’d have to tire the _ **hell**_  out of himself every night.

without him, the palace could crumble. few men can carry the weight of a country on their shoulders. speaking of shoulders, you figure adding a blanket to those wouldn’t hurt; it  _ **is**_  rather cold, and  _oh_ , those windows will need to be shut too. around his office do you go, your feet automatically moving, your hands cleaning up a bit here and there.

minutes pass until your hands latch on to some amethyst fabric, embossed in the wysterian crest. bunching it up around your fists, you deem it warm enough, and layer it upon his shoulders.

the moment it touches him, he springs to life.

“ _princess…?_ ” your title cracks on his tongue, bruised by the grogginess of his voice. how tired he sounds could break your heart.

“please don’t worry about me.” you add, “and … take care of yourself more.”

giles says nothing, though the outer corners of his lips turn up gently as you tuck the layer in. a few more finishing adjustments, and you are satisfied with your work, heels turning to let him rest in peace.

before you can even take a step away, however, familiar hands intertwine with one of yours.

_“i love you, princess.”_


	3. louis

the harp really does suit him. it’s the picture of elegance; the strings and the base are as slender as he, the notes resonate with an unmatched gentleness, and the way his fingers pluck at it is just _so, **so**_  graceful.

“would you like to try?”

_ah._  you’ve been staring too long, it seems. the lovely chimes have long stopped, and the heat of iced eyes gnaws at you. expectant, the duke’s gaze lays down a heavy peer pressure, but you know he’s being nothing but kind - you’d never have the guts to ask or intrude otherwise.

he eases when you break out into smiles and nods, ice melting into water. a featherlight smile balances on his lips, which kiss your knuckles as he takes your hand in his.

lithe fingers cover yours, and while your mind spins into a spell, all you can think about is how this is exactly like your dance lessons: he’s close, you’re blushing, and _god is your heart **pounding**_. blond bangs sweep across your forehead for a second, and his warm, soft lips press a kiss to your nose.

“don’t lose concentration now.” his voice is soft, edging on teasing.

“ah, sorry!“


	4. leo

he’s the rumpelstiltskin of words. smooth talker,  _charismatic aristocrat_ \- he takes words and spins them into gold. whether it was written or spoken did not matter; he was a master of both. paperwork ran in his blood, his speeches just came to him, and on the tip of his tongue always lies a jest, a pick-up line. with them, he crafts a mask to hide behind, locking the secret of who he was behind insincere pleasantries and vague hints.

and  _you_ , your heart is too full of compassion, your tiny body can’t possibly hold it all. it’s why your emotions spill so easily on your face, your eyes and lips swinging from one expression to another. in a way, the two of you are opposites, leo with his cryptic, static smiles, and you with your whirlwind face.

_maybe that’s why you don’t get him sometimes._

hovering over the palace balcony with his face pulled taut, the bureaucrat appears to be set in stone. red, _red_ eyes burn downwards, as if daring to peek at the midnight blue above would hurt. for the fifth consecutive night, leo hasn’t seen a wink of sleep, and you are beginning to wonder if he’s fallen into the past again.

it worries you, and you want to say something,  _anything_ , but you know better than anyone that forcing words is treading on thin ice. the past is thick waves of flames and dead parents, the lost childhood that burnt down with the crawford estate. it is a past that you have no part of, because you are his future, the future of healing waters and happy memories, and he wants you nowhere near that fire, lest it start burning once more.

from the bedroom, you bore hores into his back with your own eyes, adamant. tomorrow he will be gone, off to sort his fiasco of a family, diving back into the matter he hates most. this time, however, you will not let him go alone.

“you know, i’d do anything to keep you safe.” it’s a phrase that sounds foreign on your tongue, so foreign that it quivers. but it does take his eyes away, distracts from whatever might be tormenting him. 

“so let me come too.”

he breaks from his statuesque stance, pulls you close, and it’s a mess of limbs and stray bedsheets; his hair tickles your neck when he inclines for a cuddle, and there’s so much squirming that you fear the shuffling could reach giles’ ears. when you two finally settle, with you sitting upright and his head on your lap, the silence is replaced by laughter.

“thanks.”


	5. robert

when robert had asked to paint you, you were excited. as crown princess, it really shouldn’t have been a big deal - portraits were nearly tradition to royalty, and never had they  **not**  been painted. but when you’ve spent the last decade of your life in the shoes of a commoner, however, such things were new; they were a privilege, a dream so far that it’d never be truer than a fairy tale.

but  _this_  was not how you thought it would be.

perhaps you’ve misconstrued his words somehow.  _hm… yes, yes that **must** have been it._ rainbows of colours surround you, held captive in glass bottles. brushes of duck feathers and horse tail skim the floor lazily. the painter himself wields one now, dyed in some fusion of scarlet… and gently swipes the end over the curve of your lips.

it’s soft, and it tickles. clutching at the hem of your favourite dress, you bunch up the fabric in imitation of the courage you’re trying to muster, the courage to ask  _hey, aren’t paintings made on mediums such as canvases, and you know… not me?_

before the words can even catch in your throat, robert slips his fingers under your chin, and tilts your face towards him. “what’s wrong, love?”

the affectionate term makes you flush.

“aren’t you supposed to be painting  _me_  and not  _ **on**_  me?” it’s an innocent question, honest, but somehow it makes him raise a brow and chuckle.

“i’d have to paint your portrait sooner or later, princess. i just thought… something more personal would be nice.“ he smiles, and within that small quirk of his lip, you see mischievous intent.

so you play along.

“tell me what you mean by ‘ _personal’_.”

another grin surfaces on his face, this one a tinge more wolffish. he leans in close, kisses the lip colour off your mouth, and prepares his brush in a new color, a pale peach.

“mmm…i’ll tell you when i’m done with you.”


	6. sid

“they makin’ you study again, princess?” disdain stains the informant’s voice, his fingers clipping up the pages of the book with disgust, as if it were contaminated.  _“bullshit.”_

he continues this game as he tours your study, long legs taking wide strides, sneering at every article. if you didn’t know him any better, he’d seem like he were impersonating the bureaucrats around you, with his nose pointed high, his steps taken with arrogance.  

you purse your lips, hide your smile. amused as you are, the matter of your duties takes priority, and the princess of wysteria has  _much_ more important things to do over entertaining her local bad boy.

at least, that is what you tell yourself, eyes endlessly fixated on him. _damn him for being so alluring, so distracting in a way._

"I need to study.” it comes out colder than you want it to be, but  _ **hey**_ , that’s not  _your_  problem. not like it’d affect him much, anyway; he gets this treatment from a fellow blonde duke all the time, does he not?

yet his face collapses in exasperation nonetheless, as if he were already tired of this “princess” thing. dark brows knit for a split second, and when they relax back, his voice takes on a sensual edge.

“really?” another book is tossed to the ground, “guess i’ll have to tutor ya myself.”

“and why, exactly, would  _you_  be a good tutor?”

“because i know shit.” 

you can practically  _hear_  the grin in his voice. it’s his trademark smirk, the one you _always_ want to slap off. or kiss off. either works.

“i  _really_  need to study, sid.”

and you whip back, intending to tackle your problem subject yet again, but what you don’t know is that sid has you too close to let you go.

the minute your skin flushes against the leather bound cover of the textbook, his hands have slammed down on either side of you, and the birch desk creaks in protest to the added weight.

“nah. you don’t.”

the man has you straddled in no more than three minutes. lips nipping at the tender side of your ear, he’s got a grin that taunts “ _just **try**  to get rid of me_”.

it would be worthless to resist. like a lion, sid arnault gets what he wants, and he  _ **will**_ fight for it.

“fine. just this once, okay?”

your fingers press against the thick fur of his coat, slipping under the layer and peeling it off. the husky chuckle that chafes your ears is telling of his approval, and he glides his fingers down your thighs, tapping the bone of your knees before tracing to your hip.

“ _this_ ,” he murmurs, “is the femur.”

“that’s… not what i need to learn.”

“yeah, i know. but see? _i know shit._ ”

your laugh stifles into a gasp when he leans in and bites your lip.


	7. nico

fevers are weird.

they’re cold, and then they’re hot. they’re somewhere in between that isn’t “warm” nor “comfortable”, and the only relief for the affected comes from the sweet unconsciousness that sleep brings. most of all, however, they are an unwelcome visitor.

_much like nico himself,_  you suppose, though colds cannot react to chilled glares and whispers of  _“who let this child into the palace?”_ , to the unrelenting judgement of haughty nobles and veteran staff, the treatment that you know all too well.

it’s a miracle how all that cheer can fit into him, now that you think about it.

nico meier, he’s always sprightly smiles and spring flowers around you (or perhaps, _for you_ ). your personal butler and self-established cheerleader, there is not a day where he has failed to brighten you up, sneaking in extra food from the pantry, or making silly faces when giles dives into another one of his motherly lectures. it never mattered if blurred figures of nobility looked down upon him, it never mattered if it hurt to be an outsider, but what did matter to him was  _you_.

you drench the towel in ice water, fold it into neat rectangles for his forehead. as the cloth wrings in your hands, your heart does too. he does so much for you, never complains, and yet… perhaps you’ve taken him for granted.

the flutter of weak fingertips halts you. nico’s eyes settle open, a hoarse  _“hey..”_ escaping as the butler attempts to wrangle on a grin. a few seconds pass, and he’s betrayed by his own body, shivering as he tosses around with a groan.

a finger to your lips, you shush him, ushering him back under the comforter.

“just for today, let me serve you.” 


	8. bryon

novels stack his desk, the tower of books neatly aligned in a pillar. normally, they wouldn’t matter to you; it’s usually yet another cocktail of history texts, spiced with a math book or two. if you were lucky, perhaps there’d be a pamphlet about stargazing or the native flora. today, everything in the queue alarms you: they’re all silly romance novels, a “guide to love”, and…  _wait, is he reading a book about pick up lines?_  the king of stein, a stoic with hawk eyes, byron wagner.. _studying romance?_

“bryon?”

you’re tempted to ask why, but the shock chains your voice away. he looks up, but only briefly, flashing his focus back down to a dog eared page.

“are you a library book? because i am checking  _you_  out.”

“…”

the intention is sweet. the execution? questionable. you haven’t heard of many men who could charm women with monotone lines. in fact, you haven’t heard of  _any,_ nor have you ever met any other man who would say such things with a gaze so sharp it could kill.

you suck in a breath, pretending as if you’ve just eaten a sour candy.

“did sid do th-  **no.** don’t answer that. i already know.” 

the king’s expression hardens at the response, forehead scrunching up in thought. it’s almost as if the cogs in his brain were visible, really; there they were, churning about what went wrong.

then, a minute later, he picks up the book and begins again.

“are you a -”

not even three syllables leave his parted lips before you press a hand against him, silencing his efforts. they were appreciated, they ( _honest-to-god!_ ) really were, but it just doesn’t suit him, and you beg with desperate eyes that he gets the memo.

“is my performance… so intolerable?”

“well, it’s not very  _you._ ”

his dejection shows in the way his shoulders slump, his stature frigid as his brain goes back to the drawing board. you take it upon yourself to drape arms around him and kiss him on the cheek, but he’s unresponsive, unmoving. a mile-yard stare extending down his study, and his voice strains.

_“what do I do with all these books now?”_


	9. albert

daisies splatter the meadow in patches here and there, splashes of white and yellow invading the greenery. though small by stein standards, it feels rather endless - though that may be due to the absurd amount of rabbits dotting the field.

you’d been told that it was the closest thing the country had to a petting zoo. correction: a petting zoo that specializes in only rabbits, but still, one nonetheless.

the brown fluff underneath your fingers feels like luxury. soft, light, and smooth, you wonder what kind of haircare products could achieve this sort of texture and sheen. surely, it would involve part intensive care and part good genetics-

“er… excuse me, princess of wysteria, but i am not one of the rabbits.” albert stammers, in that all too familiar, all too judging  _‘what are you doing?’_  tone of his. he’s part flustered and part annoyed, such a typical albert mood, and it makes you want to tease him more.

and so, hands still tangled in that neat,  _neat_ fluff of hair he has, you smile and nod, “yes, albert.  _i’m very aware of that._ ”

the sing-song tone makes his face contort into displeasure, and his lips sputter to voice a complaint.  _silly albert_ , always so stiff, even when you’re  _obviously_ playing games with him.

you sigh and offer him a practiced pout, fingers escaping onto benjamin’s fur. rubbing behind the rabbit’s ears, you coo, eye faking sorrow, “you appreciate my touch, don’t you?”

the bunny stares with wide eyes, innocent and unknowing. burying his nose into your palm, he sniffs, once, twice, and twitches before settling snugly under your attentive fingers, satisfied.

its approval elicits another string of babyish babble from you, and out of the corner of your eyes, albert huffs, giving in to jealously.  _ **ha!**_   _beaten by a mere bunny rabbit, hm?_

scooting closer to you, his knees knock against yours, and the sensation of cold fingers running up your scalp forces a squeal out of you. the knight flushes to his ears, mumbles something incoherent in his bumbling.

“my hair is soft as well, princess.”

you don’t know what shocks you more: the fact that albert’s statement sounds like a _complaint_ , or the fact that he’s acting a bit….  _childish._

 _“really?”_  your response is mockingly dramatic, spoken to provoke. “ _ **I**_  wouldn’t know.”

the shade of red he turns nearly makes you think he invented a new colour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote this all in a week or so and did not have anyone to edit over or read for me, so sorry for any mistakes or awkward syntax!


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